Editor’s Note: Guy Tal, graduate in Engineering, is a guest columnist to the Daily Illini. This is the third in a series that details his experiences during a bike expedition down the coast of California with Kamilla Gray Kinard, Ryne Leuzinger and Nora Tien.

Day 2: The Gift of Fire

Deer, scampering past our tents like wild turkeys, wake us up. The morning is wet and chilly, and we’re happy to set off and warm up.

Today, we bike 17-Mile Drive. An impressive stretch of uber-wealthy abodes overlook some of the most ruggedly beautiful western coastlines. Think castles in the hills. Homeowners here compete for attention with nature rather than subdue their vanity and appreciate it. Do they actually think they’ll win?

We cruise along, stopping to enjoy little islands full of barking seals and birds. A whale also greets us as we bike up, down and around the coastline in silent admiration. The day holds untold possibilities.

Unfortunately, Kamilla has no brakes. They are worn thin, and because we only decided to embark a few days ago, there was no time to replace them.

We stop in Carmel at the nearest bike shop to have them swapped, and we settle in on a nearby patch of grass to enjoy a breakfast of hot cereal and fruit over a propane fire — Kamilla’s favorite!

Stuffed and satisfied, we all stretch out on our respective patches, tip our caps over our eyes, and nod off as the rays bake our bodies.

Time passes — who knows how long? When you’ve got nowhere to be, time is a drum only others hear and daylight is all that matters — but then Ryne suddenly says, “I don’t think we’ll be able to go further today.”

We’re confused, so he points out that the traffic out of Carmel on weekends is rough and the winter daylight is fading fast. He knows the terrain well enough to know we won’t find anywhere to throw down our tents before it gets dark, and he doesn’t want us caught on the highway then. We’re a bit bummed since we’re well-rested and ready for a ride, but it could be worse than having to spend a night at a famous, artsy California beach town.

One snag. There’s nowhere to camp — this place is ritzville! And the idea of backtracking is anathema to a cyclist — so tonight, we sleep indoors! Ryne finds us a place with my phone, unwittingly picking a hotel at the top of the hill that is Carmel.

When we arrive, I go in alone to talk up the attendant and return with a 50 percent discount. My band stands appropriately impressed.

“How’d you do it?” they chime.

Kamilla and Ryne are used to this, having lived near me for years. They think I have super heroic powers of persuasion, and I admit to occasionally fanning the flames of rumor. But Nora, ever the ambitious student, is all ears. I play coy.

We drop our panniers off in the room and head downhill, beach on the brain.

Dan, an old friend and fellow biker, always says that hills are like banking transactions. Uphills are deposits. Downhills are withdrawals. Well, this downhill is a downright frivolous expense, though an exhilarating one.

At the base of the hill, by the ocean, a large crowd gathers to watch the sunset together. I like that. Ryne says he thinks the California sunsets are like water paintings, and as we listen, he seems to us a part of that painting.

Night falls and we set out for a walk on the beach. I suggest we play “I spy in the night sky,” a favorite game of mine. The objective is to guide the players’ attentions to a particular set of stars with words alone. Unfortunately, the game is diverted by a conversation about Orion, who looks remarkably tipsy tonight. Some ways off there are people making fires on the beach, and we’re helplessly drawn toward the warmth.

“Do you think they’ll let us join?” asks Kamilla.

The group nominates me to find out.

“Is there a place by your fire for me and my friends?” I ask the party with the largest blaze.

“You’re welcome to join us,” an older member of the group says, “or you can have your own.”

He points at a spot not 30 feet away and, as if he’d conjured the flames that very moment, a fire springs to our attention there.

“You can take some more wood, too,” he says.

We’re set! I have returned with fire for my people.

It’s difficult to leave a fire before exhausting all the fuel, and we find no reason to, so we crowd around the heat, singeing our shoes, telling what passes for ghost stories in these postmodern times.

Eventually, when the night takes our fire but gives us the moon, we climb the hill to our bed, making a deposit for tomorrow.

Unfortunately, there is only one bed, and we consider the sardine-like possibility of a three-vertical, one-horizontal stacking arrangement before Ryne maturely bows out and hits the sack on the floor. I point out to Nora that, if I get the bed so will Kamilla, but if I were relegated to the floor, Kamilla would come with because we’re both cuddle deprived; isn’t two better than one?

Such arguments, however, hold no sway over the Norwhal, who merely says she looks forward to having a bed to herself. Since no one budges, I quickly drift off to sleep, with Nora on one side of the sandwich, me on the other and Kamilla the grilled cheese.

Soon, I’m told, my snores serenade the lot to sleep. Ryne brings earplugs. Kamilla is acclimated. But the Norwhal doesn’t know what hit her.  

[email protected]